


The Guy Next-Door

by klutzyelf



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Humor, Mistaken Identity, Oblivious Clint Barton, Pre-Canon, Steve Rogers is an All-American Beefcake, fusion of 616 and MCU, or really more like unrealized identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klutzyelf/pseuds/klutzyelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing escapes him when he’s taking out marks as Hawkeye, but as Clint that’s another story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guy Next-Door

**Author's Note:**

> This fic works under the idea that Steve actually lives in Clint's apartment building because kimsnothere and I thought it would be funny.

Contrary to popular belief ( _Natasha_ ) Clint Barton is not actually that oblivious, he just…misses things.  It’s never in the field; in the field he is far enough away that he can see everything – nothing escapes him when he’s taking out marks as Hawkeye, but as Clint that’s another story.

After a fiasco involving aliens?/genetic experiments? and giant fucking metal robots because why the hell not, that went down in Bumfuck Alabama, Clint drags himself back to his apartment only to find that the place across the way (the one that has been on sale since he moved in and likely even before) finally has a tenant.  As he is currently sluggishly bleeding from about thirteen different wounds and so sleep deprived that he doesn’t particularly care that he’s ruining his favorite shirt, all he does is grunt at the small stack of empty boxes lying in front of the closed door before fumbling around for his keys and passing out on his couch.

-:-

He’s lived in this apartment for around a year.

It’s a pretty sweet gig, aside from the tracksuit mafia assholes that like to stop by every few months and harass Simone.  For the most part though, Clint is very content living there.  He knows everyone by name now and they get together at least once every two weeks for their rooftop cookouts, and it really is the most domestic thing Clint has ever been a part of but he loves it anyway.  It’s during one of these that he realizes that he doesn’t see any new faces

“Hey, Grills,” he calls, “did no one invite the new guy?”

"New guy?” Grills asks.

Clint nods, opening another bottle of beer deftly with his left hand.  “Yeah, someone finally moved into the shit apartment across from me.”

Grills shrugs and flips a burger.  “Don’t think so man.” There is a patty burning in the corner that he’s desperately trying to scrape off with little success.  “Pretty sure that place is as empty as it’s always been.”

Confused, Clint leaves him to his burning meat slabs and swallows a mouthful of the cheap shit that they can’t seem to stop Aimee from buying.  And because he honestly cannot stand the taste of this stuff, and because Nat had given him a truly exquisite bottle of Vodka for New Years, he decides to venture downstairs and maybe kill two birds with one stone.  If no one else had thought to invite New Guy then Clint might as well.

When he gets to his floor New Guy is locking the door to his apartment.

New Guy is the poster boy for All-American-ness – all tall, and blonde, and muscle-y in a shirt that has _got_ to be two sizes too small.  He can tell, even from a distance, that New Guy is tense and twitchy.  He’s got his back to Clint but he seems to be checking the other side of the hallway as if expecting someone to jump out at him any second.

Clint doesn’t want to startle the guy, honestly, but however many years as an assassin has made it second nature for him to be as quiet as absolutely possible all the fucking time.  “Hey, you must be New Guy.”

New Guy doesn’t jump, but he does twirl around sharply looking guilty like he’s been found out.  Clint hopes he’s not working for the tracksuit mafia.  That would suck.

“Uh, yeah I suppose…hi.”

Clint nods.  “Well, um, names Clint.”

“Steve.”

They stare at each other for a few minutes.  Steve is looking at him as if he expects Clint to jump up and shout “AHA!” in his face or run around naked singing the Star-Spangled Banner which, okay, that _had_ actually happened once and it is the reason why he will never drink with Phil again _ever_. 

“So…we’re having a thing on the roof…wanna come?”

Steve’s got this constipated look on his face that accurately captures Clint’s feelings of wanting to shoot himself in the face with his entire quiver.  “Sorry,” he says, “I’ve actually got a thing too…um, but thanks for inviting me.” 

For the life of him Clint can’t figure out why this guy seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop, and for the life of him he also can’t figure out where he thinks he knows this guy from.  “Oh,” he says instead.  “Kay.”

Steve nods once and takes it as his cue to power-walk his way down the corridor and out of sight.

-:-

Clint sees Steve a lot over the next few months.  Their schedules just seem to coincide awkwardly even though he never sees the guy leave his place.  Phil will call Clint into the office just as Steve is coming back from his morning run, so they exchange awkward hello’s; the hinge on Steve’s door falls off just as Clint is coming back from a mission, so they both have to sleepily fumble around in the dark for it; Clint forgets his laundry basket in the communal laundry room so Steve has to return it to him because he used the room next.  It is a series of encounters that Steve seems to avoid with everyone else, as they are all staunchly insisting that Apartment C is still as uninhabited as ever, and every time Clint tries to prove it to them Steve is either not at home or not answering his door.

These encounters die down when an ambiguous higher up (probably Fury) decides that he needs to spend more time at SHIELD to keep him out of trouble.  Clint spends most of his time making life as difficult for everyone he knows as possible, while at the same time helping out the struggling interns by teaching them how to juggle four stacks of generic coffee cups.  He’s even made himself a nice little space in the air vent above Phil’s office; he spends so much time there.

It doesn’t take that long for Phil to discover where he keeps hiding out and systematically kick him out of his cozy space.  Clint spends most of the day wandering around headquarters before he spies a familiar blonde head.

Clint stops.  Huh?

“You work for SHIELD?”

Steve turns, eyebrows raised in surprise.  He isn’t in a suit, like the rest the SHIELD agents; he’s still in civilian clothing so when he answers: “No?” despite the implied question mark Clint believes him. 

“Then what are you doing here?”

Now Steve looks really confused.  That shoe that he seems to have been waiting for throughout their entire acquaintance seems to drop right then, but not in the way that either of them were expecting.  “You don’t know?”

“Who _are_ you?”

“You don’t know that either?  I thought you were too polite to say anything!”

They stare at one another just like they did in their hallway the first time they met, except way more confused.  Agents pass quickly by around them, all too absorbed in their various duties to pay much mind to the way that Hawkeye and Steve whoever-the-fuck-he-is are staring one another down.

It takes a while for someone to actually break their silence.  “Director Fury will see you now, Captain.”

Oh, that’s the other shoe.  “You’re not fucking serious.”

Captain America gives Clint the most apologetic smile and follows Generic Agent Number Nine into Fury’s office.

 _What_?

In the field, Hawkeye sees everything.  But Clint Barton?

Yeah okay he misses some stuff.


End file.
